Riding with Private Malone
by Mele
Summary: Blair ends up with a classic car with a tragic history, and a guardian angel.


_**Disclaimer** : Sentinel is not mine, it belongs to Pet Fly, and I'm just borrowing the characters and concepts for some nice, non profit type fun. The song referenced herein, "Riding With Private Malone" was written by Wood Newton & Thom Shepherd (Wood & I Music & LG Wells Music (BMI)/Twang Thang Music (ASCAP)) Also used without permission and not for profit._

 _ **Notes/Timeline** : Shortly after "The Girl Next Door". Car canon is ignored from that point on._

 _ **Ratings/warnings** : Mild PG for violence._

 **Riding with Private Malone**

By Mele

"I'm telling you Blair, this is an unprecedented opportunity to unload that mobile…well, occasionally mobile…piece of scrap metal you drive and buy something more street worthy," Brent Douglas argued, gesturing with barely concealed disdain at Blair's 1968 Volvo. Douglas had been Sandburg's mechanic for years now, and gradually it had become more of friendship rather than a customer/mechanic relationship, fueled in part at least by Blair's assistance to Douglas's sister five years before.

"Hey, man, this baby is a classic! I can't just send her to the great Auto Beyond because she has a few health problems," the grad student argued, running a fond hand over the dark green hood.

"'A few health problems,'" the mechanic echoed. "Blair, face it, she's terminal. Hell, she's worse than terminal, she's the auto equivalent of the living dead."

"Oh, and selling her carcass for parts will make me feel so much better? Hey, I'm flashing to that Stephen King movie about the possessed car. You ever see that one?" Blair grinned.

"Sure. And this makes me have to ask: were you rooting for the car in that movie?" The larger man gave his friend an amused look.

"Huh, good point. But still…" Blair's expressive face showed his indecision.

"Look, Blair, Rister is willing to pay $1,000 for a good 'parts' car for his '68 Volvo. I know his car, man, and if you take the best of what's left of yours, and add it to his, THEN you'd have a piece of machinery worth working on. Don't think of it as killing her, think of it as…as…as giving the best of her a shot at eternal life." Dark eyes sparkled with humor as he looked down at his favorite customer.

Sandburg couldn't help but burst into laughter at the ridiculous comment, and he leaned against his dusty car as he regained his composure.

"That…that has to be the LAMEST, most cornball argument in the history of automotive mechanics, man," he said at last.

"Whatever I have to do I will gladly do to get you to give up your bohemian tastes in cars."

"Bohemian? You're calling ME bohemian?" Blair asked with exaggerated shock.

"If the pretense fits, drive it," Douglas replied, unperturbed by Sandburg's attitude.

"Pretense? Now that's harsh, man. But…still…okay. I'll do it. If only because eventually Jim's gonna get tired of having to taxi me around. Now all I have to do is find a way to tell him what I'm doing without admitting he was right…"

TS*TS

Jim Ellison - Major Crime detective, former Covert Ops Ranger, and Sentinel of the Great City – was a heartbeat from throwing the remote control he held across the room. He'd purchased a new 'entertainment center' with a VCR and CD player, all remote controlled and equipped with the latest features. And after nearly an hour of being soundly defeated in his attempts to program it he was ready to return the whole system for a box of books and a candle; entertainment should not be this complicated! Just where the hell was Sandburg when he needed him.

Of course, he knew where Sandburg was, and though he approved he was still irritated; he decided on a new house rule that would require his roommate be there when new electronic devices were in need of programming. Satisfied with that thought, and deciding therefore the whole problem was his roommate's fault, he took a beer out of the refrigerator and sought alternate entertainment. He was just settling down with a book to read when he heard Sandburg's familiar tread in the hallway outside.

Blair had breezed out fairly early that bright Saturday morning, planning to spend the day looking at the used cars on offer in Cascade. He had the thousand dollars his mechanic had paid him for his old Volvo, and a loaner car for the day. Jim had offered to go with him, but his guide had replied with a gentle chuckle and a raised hand.

"No. Thanks, Jim, but…no. There are some things that can tear the best friendships asunder: sex, betrayal, drinking, drugs, or buying a car together are the biggies. Let's play this safe; I'll go alone."

Shaking his head a little to dispel the memory, Ellison looked up expectantly as his younger roommate bounded into the loft, his face flushed with excitement, his eyes shining.

"Successful, Chief?"

"Oh, man, Jim! You will NOT believe it. You have got to come see this. Grab your shoes and come on down, check this out. I saw an ad this morning, just a tiny one saying it was an old Chevy, and a phone number that indicated the Green Valley area, you know, where all those old farms are. I called the number and got this lady who tells me she doesn't know anything about the car except it's been there for ages, doesn't know the year, the make, if it runs, anything."

As Blair carried on his monolog Jim pulled on his tennis shoes and grabbed his keys before following his guide out to the old elevator. Through it all Sandburg continued to talk, his wild gestures adding punctuation to the tale.

"So I go on out there, and she tells me it's in the barn under a tarp. Well, I find the tarp in the corner, and man, it's like totally covered with dust and dirt, looks like it's been decades since it's been moved. So I pull it off, and underneath there's another cover, this one cloth. I'm thinking, man, they really protected this car anyway, so I pull that off, and that's what I found," he pointed to the car parked next to Jim's truck with a grin.

"Chief, you have GOT to be kidding. Tell me you're kidding," Jim moaned walking forward in shock. "I'm starting to think I should be reading you your rights here."

"I told her, Jim! I did! You know me; I don't take advantage of people like that. She said she didn't care, she wanted it gone, and if I didn't want it, fine. But her price was $1,000 even, no negotiating, and still I felt guilty when I paid her. She pretty much indicated that money didn't interest her, guess they must have plenty. Anyway, Brent helped me get it running, and here it is. What do you think?" he asked with a broad grin at his friend's amazed expression.

"I'm thinking if your luck is turning this good you should go buy a lottery ticket," the Sentinel mumbled as he walked around his Guide's new car.

"My, God, she called this an 'old Chevy'?" he asked finally.

"Yeah. Can you believe it? She called a '66 Corvette an 'old Chevy.' Jim, there's only 3,000 original miles on this beauty. We put in a new battery, and replaced some belts and stuff that had simply rotted. I think it sat in that barn for the whole thirty years," Blair explained as he rubbed a loving hand over the gleaming red hood. The color was almost obscenely bright, and with the top down it looked literally brand new.

"Wanna go for a drive?" Blair asked with a waggle of his eyebrows, bringing a grin to Jim's face.

"Sure. I don't suppose you'd let me drive, would you?" the big man asked with studied casualness.

"I think that could be arranged," Sandburg chuckled, handing over the keys. "Just promise no chasing the bad guys. Okay?"

"Just tell the bad guys to stay away from us," Ellison mumbled, settling himself behind the wheel and adjusting the seat to his height. "Oh, man, listen to that engine! Sandburg, I cannot believe you got this."

Blair sat back with a satisfied smile, glad the weather was good enough to allow the top to be kept down. Remembering the registration form he'd put in his pocket after the trip to the DMV, he leaned forward to open the glove box. Pulling out the paperwork he placed it in the compartment, noticing a yellowed sheet of paper on top of the owner's manual. Curious, he pulled it out, opening it to read in the mellow light of late afternoon.

"Oh, man, Jim, listen to this. _'My name is Private Andrew Malone, if you're reading this then I didn't make it home. But for every dream that is shattered, another one comes true; this car was once a dream of mine, now it belongs to you. And though you take her and make her your own, you'll always be riding with Private Malone.'_ It's dated March 31, 1966. He must have carefully put her in that barn, under those covers, disconnected the battery, did all that so it would be in good shape for when he got home. But he never did get home. No wonder that lady didn't know how valuable this car is. It was probably her uncle or something; she probably didn't even know him," the grad student sounded subdued suddenly.

"Could be. But, Blair, this doesn't mean you shouldn't be happy to have this car. In fact, I'd guess that Private Malone would be pleased that someone is finally using it. A car like this, it's not meant to be kept hidden under a tarp in an old barn. It's meant to be driven, shown off, raced, polished," Jim's eyes got a bit distant as he wound his way through the light evening traffic.

"Whoa, Jim. You sound like you're seriously falling in love with my car, man. Back off, she's mine," he mock growled, snickering when light color suffused the older man's face.

"Yeah, well, you better not ever let me catch you not treating her well," Ellison joked back, making his way to the open highway to give her a good run.

"Oh, great, now you're sounding like the 'father of the bride,' man. Get your own 'vette, this one's mine!"

TS*TS

For the first time in his life Blair Sandburg had a good car, a vehicle he could depend on to start each day and actually get him to his destinations. He no longer dreaded the thought of having to drive somewhere; instead he eagerly looked forward to any excuse to take the car out on the road, the further away the better. He'd already taken three trips to Seattle in the four months he'd owned the 'vette, and been pulled over by the Highway Patrol twice.

Having a car with a powerful engine was bringing out the daredevil in the grad student, it didn't take Jim long to realize the reason his younger friend was a cautious driver before was because he'd had no choice. He'd had to be careful, or else whatever 'classic' he'd had at the time would have disintegrated right there on the yellow line. Now that he had a car that could do fast, fast is how he went.

And his social life had never been better. Even Jim had to admit driving a classic Corvette in cherry condition was a total 'babe magnet,' as his young Guide put it. Twice they'd gone out just cruising around town on Saturday nights, and they'd been hit on at every light, including being mooned twice. These forays had the unprecedented effect of putting Jim in a nearly unbelievably good mood the next day, and he opened up a bit more to his guide about his father's classic cars and his youth in general.

The gang at Major Crime were quick to volunteer to accompany Blair on assignments, always accepting the anthropologists generous offer to drive. It was a win/win situation, since Blair loved showing off his 'baby', and the other detectives enjoyed being seen in what was undoubtedly the coolest car in the precinct. It was a tribute to his generous and trusting nature that almost all of them had driven the 'vette at least once.

There was one thing, though, that Blair only mentioned to Jim, and that was only once. Sometimes, especially at night when the oldies rock station was playing, Blair was convinced he could see the ghostly shape of Andrew Malone, in his army uniform, sitting in the passenger seat. This was not something that particularly scared Blair, as he felt absolutely no menace from his ghostly companion. Instead, it evoked a feeling of profound sorrow, and at times Blair found himself talking softly in the quiet of the dark car, seeking to offer solace to a man thirty years in his grave.

It finally happened often enough that Blair decided to run the idea by his Sentinel and Blessed Protector, just to see what he thought.

"Say what, Sandburg? Are you trying to tell me you think your car is haunted?" the older man asked incredulously.

"Well, not exactly haunted, per se…just occasionally hosting a non-corporeal manifestation of the previous owner." Blair fastened his most sincere expression on his face and turned to Ellison.

"In other words…you think it's haunted," Jim translated dryly.

"Okay, yeah, fine. I think it's haunted. Happy now?" the grad student grumbled.

"Oh, yeah, Chief. Thrilled. And what exactly makes you think your car is haunted?"

"I see him there, Jim! In the passenger seat, in full uniform. It's not like he's threatening me, man, not at all. But he's there. Wonder why he's hanging around…" his voice trailed off as his thoughts centered on that question.

"I dunno, Darwin. Maybe he's getting an afterlife thrill from your driving," Ellison grumbled, turning his attention toward the television and the beginning of a Jags game. "I think you're riding too close to the edge, Sandburg. Not getting enough sleep. See if that helps," the big man shrugged, clearly not particularly interested in his partner's car problem.

"Thanks, Jim," Blair replied by rote, already plugging in his laptop to do some research. Curious, he used his resources to find out all he could about one Private Andrew Malone, who it turned out was killed in action on March 31, 1967. The irony did not escape Blair; that the young man had died exactly one year after leaving that note in the glove compartment of his dream car.

Further digging brought a date of birth of June 14, 1948; it appeared he'd been born on the same farm Blair had picked up the car from. He'd graduated valedictorian from Cascade High School in 1965, having skipped one grade in grammar school, and had been drafted the following winter. His father was the manager of the local Chevrolet dealership, which certainly explained how such a young man had managed to afford a Corvette right out of high school. He had been buried right there in Cascade in the summer of '67, leaving behind his parents and two younger sisters.

There was nothing extraordinary in the biography Blair was able to assemble from the pieces of information he'd uncovered. Andrew Malone had been a good kid, an outstanding student, a responsible young adult. Boiled down to the bare facts he'd been born, lived an uneventful life, done his duty to parents and country, and paid with his life just short of his 20th birthday.

Blair rested his chin on one fist and contemplated all the things he would have missed if he'd been denied the last decade of his life. The expeditions he'd been on, getting his Bachelor's and his Master's degrees, meeting James Ellison, Sentinel and his personal Holy Grail. All the things he'd learned and experienced without stopping to consider just how damned lucky he was to be alive. How easily and how quickly it could all be lost.

Shaking off his unexpected melancholy, the grad student shut down his laptop and cleared the table off. Bidding his roommate goodnight, he retired to his room only to find his dreams filled with visions of a young soldier tooling around Cascade in a bright red Corvette convertible, the sun glinting off his gleaming uniform buttons.

TS*TS

"Dammit Jim, did you see that book I had out last night about indigenous tribes of Nairobi? I need to get it back to BookLenders by…well…now, actually," Blair asked his roommate as he frantically searched the living room; lifting couch cushions and running his hands under the furniture.

"Well, Chief, let me see…if I was a book – a book that obviously didn't belong in the living room, I might add – where would I be? Oh…perhaps a certain grad student's room?" the detective replied ironically.

"Jiiiim, you watched me going insane trying to find that book and you knew where it was all along?" the younger man whined, emerging from his room with the coveted tome in his hands.

"What can I say, Sandburg? You're amusing and there's nothing good on TV right now," the big man chuckled, patting Blair's head as he walked by on his way into the kitchen.

"You are SO not funny, man. Look, I've got to get this returned; I'll probably be an hour or so. You want me to pick up some dinner on my way back? I go right by that Thai place you like," Blair offered.

"Sounds good. And just to show there's no hard feelings I'll even let you treat," Ellison smirked even as he reached for his own wallet, thoroughly enjoying the disgusted double take the younger man gave him.

"What has gotten into you today, Jim? You feeling okay Big Guy?" Sandburg groaned as he pocketed the money.

"Just in a good mood, Chief. It's not everyday you get to take out the head of one of the biggest drug rings in Washington State."

"Oh, I dunno Jim. It seems to be becoming routine to you these days," the grad student grinned. "Pad Tai noodles with shrimp, and sweet and sour pork, with vegetable rice okay?"

"Perfect. You be careful out there, Junior. This rain is making the roads dangerous, no speeding." The glint of humor was gone from Jim's light eyes; he took his role as Blair's 'blessed protector' more seriously than he'd be willing to admit.

"Yes, Dad. And I'll be in by curfew, I promise," Sandburg smirked at the detective as he pulled his jacket on and retrieved his keys from the basket.

Ignoring the Sentinel's grumbling about smartass anthropologists, Blair hurried down the stairs, tucking the book inside his jacket to protect it from the pouring rain. He felt the usual spark of pleasure when he saw his car waiting there for him; a little thrill of possessiveness flamed inside him, and he couldn't help but consider how disappointed his mother would be in him. He'd never placed any importance in material things, outside of those that stored the knowledge he relentlessly sought. But other than books, his laptop, and a few treasured mementos with negligible monetary value, he'd always tended to have a footloose and possession-free lifestyle.

Until now.

Taking a moment to savor the muted roar of the engine, he also considered the unusual luxury of having a car he could actually depend upon to not only start, but to continue running when he had somewhere to go. Checking the mirrors carefully, he pulled out of his parking place and headed toward Route 35.

The rain had been falling steadily all day, and as night approached the temperature fell rapidly toward freezing, creating slick, dangerous driving conditions. Though he wouldn't have admitted it to Jim for anything, driving on 35 still gave Blair the creeps, ever since that nightmare day he spent bouncing between Iris and Chance and Artie Beckman. And Rob. Mustn't forget the oddly docile Rob, who at least had had the good taste to like the Volvo. Still, he almost died on this road several times during that twenty-four hour stretch, and if the shop in Blackwood wasn't the best specialty bookshop/library, in the state he would never have gone there.

Thirty minutes later he was dashing up the steps of BookLenders, making it through the door just before they closed for the day. Returning his book and chatting with the clerk, a sixty-seven year old grandmother of twelve who was in pre-med courses at Rainer, left him seriously behind schedule as he pulled back out onto the road.

Between the weather and the hour, the traffic was sparse, and without really thinking about it Blair let his speed creep up. Singing along to the oldies station, he didn't even notice the sign warning of curves up ahead; by the time we realized he was going too fast it was far too late. Almost soundlessly the bright red Corvette slid across the county road and down the steep embankment, stopping only when it rammed into a large tree.

Moments later the entire area was illuminated by the flames as the gas tank exploded.

TS*TS

"Simon! Simon, is there any word yet?" Jim Ellison ran a distracted hand over his short, soaked hair as he hurried up to his Captain's side in the Emergency Room.

"Not yet, Jim. I know he was brought in alive, that's all I've been told so far. I'm waiting for one of the officers who was on the scene to give me his report; he should be here in five minutes or so. Now Jim, it won't help if you terrorize the admittance staff, you know that," Simon calmed the detective even as he herded the upset man to a nearby waiting room. "They know we're here, let them do their jobs."

"I just knew something would happen with him and that fast car. That's just not a good combination, Simon. The kid is too reckless," Jim grumbled, not noticing the expression that flitted across his captain's face as he considered the detective who had filed the most vehicle damage reports in the entire precinct.

"Jim, we don't even know for sure it was Sandburg's error that caused the accident," the older man pointed out reasonably, glancing up when another person entered the waiting room. "But here's the man who can probably tell us."

"Captain Banks?" The speaker was a middle aged officer with a kindly face, the lower part of his uniform pants damp from his work in the rain. His nameplate gleamed under the fluorescent lights: Stephan Woods.

"I'm Captain Simon Banks. This is one of my detectives, Jim Ellison. The victim in the accident is his partner. What can you tell us about what happened out there?"

"Well, couple of witnesses said it looked like he just slid going into that curve, probably going a little too fast. Doesn't take much to lose control at that particular spot, it's seen more than it's share of accidents. Probably didn't see or heed the caution signs, and off he went. The witnesses did say he didn't seem to be going TOO fast, if you know what I mean. Not hot-dogging or anything. Seems a pretty straightforward accident. There was one funny thing though," the man's voice trailed off as he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

"What's that?" Jim asked tightly, his patience at low ebb.

"The witnesses say they saw someone pull him from the wreckage just before it exploded. Now I know it sounds weird, but they swear the person was wearing a military uniform. Though why in the hell I just can't figure. I mean, we don't have any bases around here, no reason for someone to be wandering around in uniform, but there you have it. They swear that's what they saw, and they seem sober and sane enough to me. By any means, though, your partner is damned lucky to be alive, Detective. There's nothing left of that 'vette except the burned out husk."

"My God," Simon breathed as Ellison blanched.

"My thoughts exactly," Stephan agreed with the sincerity of a man who had pulled far too many bodies out of crushed vehicles.

Before Jim could even formulate any sort of response a familiar face joined them in the waiting room, immediately catching the Sentinel's attention.

"Doctor Sims, how's Blair?" Jim asked of the new arrival.

"Lucky," the elderly doctor said succinctly. "A minor concussion, mild whiplash, some lovely bruising, and that's it. I'm ordering a head X-ray just as a precaution, but once that's done you can go on in and see him. I'd like to keep an eye on him for a few hours, then, if there are no complications and the pictures look okay, you should be able to take him on home. And try to PLEASE not come back here so soon? You two boys alone are enough to fund my retirement plan." His words lacked sting due to the fond look he gave the big detective who looked mildly abashed at the scolding.

"We'll do our best," he mumbled, relief flooding him as he realized his best friend would be okay. Distractedly thanking the doctor and the patrolman, Ellison excused himself and strode back toward the entrance to the hospital, needing to move about and work off a little of his nervous energy.

Pausing by the double glass doors at the main entrance the detective looked out into the rainy night, the parking lot beyond the front lawn illuminated by widely placed streetlights. The Sentinel's breath caught in his throat when he saw the young man who stood at the curb mindless of the falling rain and bitterly cold wind.

The slim figure was encased in a smart uniform, the carefully ironed crease running ramrod straight down the front of the pant legs. The look of the uniform was subtly dated, and to Ellison's eyes appeared to be from the Viet Nam era, US Army. Immediately after noting these details Jim noticed something that made his heart thump painfully in his chest.

He could see through the young soldier.

Unable to tear his eyes away from what his mind frantically told him couldn't exist, it took another moment for him to recognize the bright red convertible parked just behind him. Suddenly the young soldier snapped a sharp salute, holding it until Jim returned it, before smiling at the Sentinel and walking around to get into his car. Seconds later there was no trace of what Jim wasn't even sure he'd really seen.

TS*TS

Epilog

"You okay there, Chief?"

"Fine, Jim. Just have to take it kind of slow for a while. Oh, man, my bruises have bruises," he groaned lowering himself carefully onto the couch.

"Don't complain too much, Junior; you're lucky to be here to feel the pain at all." The big man paused, looking out the loft windows with a distant expression while Blair watched him silently. "My God, Chief. Do you know how close it was this time?" he blurted out; half in anger, half in anguish.

"I know, Jim," Sandburg replied in a hushed voice. "They told me."

"What happened out there?"

"I don't know, man. I remember getting to BookLenders, and chatting with Darnelle. She's so amazing, you know she'll be seventy when she enters medical school? But she's determined to do this, she says it's all she'd ever wanted, since she was like five or so…" his voice trailed off at Ellison's impatient growl. "Oh, anyway, I talked to her for a while, then headed home. The traffic wasn't bad, and I was getting great reception on the radio, and then I woke up in Cascade General. They say the car exploded, but I don't remember anything about that."

"It did. I went by the station before I picked you up to come home and saw them bring it in. Hope your insurance premium was paid up," Jim informed him, his voice harsh to disguise the fear he still felt when he thought about how close he'd come to losing his best friend.

"Of course," Blair said dismissively, distracted by his own thoughts. "They said someone pulled me out…a soldier." He looked up at the Sentinel curiously. "What do you make of that?"

"A good Samaritan who wishes to remain anonymous would be my guess," the older man replied, not meeting the over-bright blue eyes of his Guide.

"And I think it was Private Malone who pulled me out. He was doing his duty, protecting me, I think that's why he stuck around," Sandburg explained hastily. "He probably felt responsible for whoever got the car after he did."

For a moment Jim considered sharing with his younger friend what he'd seen outside the hospital earlier that night as they X-rayed his injured Guide. But he knew if he admitted to seeing a 'ghost' Blair would never let it rest. In the interest of continued peace, and to protect his own desire to ignore those things he KNEW could not exist, he shook his head dismissively.

"You sure that you didn't suffer any brain damage there, Darwin?" he asked even as he started the kettle for some tea.

"Very funny, Jim. Ha, ha. I guess it doesn't matter, anyway. The car's gone, so he's probably gone. I was just damned lucky I had him along tonight," he finished in the barest of whispers, not wanting to argue with his Sentinel.

Ellison ignored the whispered comment, but his eyes grew softer as he added his own nearly-silent thanks.

"Thank God he was riding with Private Malone."

The end.

 _ **Author's note:** Okay, so no 'bonus points' for originality, but I did try to do justice to a fine country song. For those who are curious about such thing, here are the complete lyrics, as performed by David Ball._

Riding With Private Malone

I was just out of the service, thumbing through the classifieds

When an ad that said old Chevy somehow caught my eye

The lady didn't know the year or even if it ran

But I had that thousand dollars in my hand.

It was way back in the corner of this old ramshackle barn

Thirty years of dust and dirt on that green army tarp

And when I pulled the cover off it took away my breath

What she called a Chevy was a 66 Corvette.

Now I felt a little guilty as I counted out the bills

But what a thrill I got when I sat behind the wheel.

I opened up the glovebox and that's when I found the note,

The date was 1966 and this is what he wrote:

He said: My name is Private Andrew Malone

If you're reading this then I didn't make it home

But for every dream that's shattered

Another one comes true

This car was once a dream of mine, now it belongs to you.

And though you may take her and make her your own

You'll always be riding with Private Malone

Well it didn't take me long at all, I had her running good

I loved to hear those horses thunder underneath her hood.

Had her shining like a diamond and I put the ragtop down

All the pretty girls would and stare when I drove her through town.

The buttons on the radio didn't seem to work quite right

But it picked up that oldies show, especially late at night.

I got the feeling sometimes if I turned real quick I'd see

A soldier riding shotgun in the seat right next to me

It was a young man named Private Andrew Malone

Who fought for his country and didn't make it home

But for every dream that's shattered

Another one comes true

This car was once a dream of his back when it was new.

He told me to take her and make her my own

And I was proud to be riding with Private Malone.

One night it was raining hard and I took a curve too fast

I still don't remember much about that fiery crash

But someone said they thought they saw a soldier pull me out

They didn't get his name but I knew without a doubt.

It was a young man named Private Andrew Malone

Who fought for his country and didn't make it home

But for every dream that's shattered

Another one comes true

This car was once a dream of his back when it was new.

And I know I wouldn't be here if he hadn't tagged along

Thank God I was riding with Private Malone.


End file.
